


A Helping Hand

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:48:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horace is feeling a bit of the old ennui, until he discovers a Gryffindor first-year with...potential.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Helping Hand

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanks to [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/slinkiestumble/profile)[**slinkiestumble**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/slinkiestumble/) and [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/corvidae9/profile)[**corvidae9**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/corvidae9/) for betaing! Also, a general shoutout to anyone who came to the Lumos 2006 Ronslash meetup, whence this idea was spawned. Yeah, I don't know either.

Horace Slughorn shuffled into the Potions classroom with a heavy sigh and dropped his folder of notes onto the podium. The shrill voices of a pack of first-year students filing into the room did absolutely nothing for his mood. No more early classes, he decided; that was another thing he should've demanded a long time ago. If Dumbledore wanted him to stay on, there would be no more classes before...hm...ten thirty. Perhaps lunch. Horace had already negotiated a wage increase and freedom from chaperoning those blasted Hogsmeade trips, and he'd foisted off the Head of House title on Sinistra (Merlin help her and all Slytherin) so a reduction in classroom hours was the next logical step. Dumbledore would just have to hire him an assistant to take the lower classes, or let him go. He should've demanded it years ago.

_No,_ a small voice in the back of his head muttered while he sorted through his lecture notes for the day, _what you should've done is _retired_. Years ago. Didn't you threaten it before the end of the war?_

Indeed he had. He had very nearly retired, to enjoy the fruits of his long years of labor while henot to mention the rest of the wizarding worldstill had the time. But he decided at the last minute that one more year wouldn't hurt him, just for old times' sakethere were some older students he wanted to see through their NEWTs, some younger students he wanted to leave with a little extra wisdom. But that one year had turned into two, then three, and now somehow five, and it had begun to seem that no matter how outlandish Horace's demands became, Dumbledore was going to continue to acquiesce until Horace had to do the rude thing and simply walk away. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the work

_No,_ the same small voice said, _you hate teaching. It's the students you enjoy._

And, yes, that was so. It was the students who made everything worthwhile, who made up for the tedious marking and the endless repetition of material from year to year, the students who watched him work with respect and adoration, the _exceptional_ students he could steer onto the path of greatness. It was for the students he had stayed. Even that had begun to pall, thoughthere hadn't been anyone truly remarkable in any of his classes for years, and it seemed that every year's crop of first-years was slightly more evil than the last.

Oh, he still had his little collectionit was a hard habit to breakbut it didn't excite him anymore, not in the same way. He could count a handful of very bright Ravenclaws, one or two particularly ambitious Slytherins, a Hufflepuff with family ties to the Nimbus corporation and a trio of Gryffindors with a talent for creative jinxes. Not one who really stood out, not a one he could imagine going far even with a bit of assistance. If the future generation was so pathetic, perhaps he ought to retire and enjoy life before a tidal wave of mediocrity engulfed the whole wizarding world.

The bell sounded, and Horace shuffled over to the chalkboard. "Bring your essays up to my desk, please," he announced without glancing backwards; lately he hadn't even been feeling up to his usual showmanship, though it had always made him popular with the younger ones in the past. He wrote a few notes on the board while listening with half an ear to the classshuffling scrolls, banging chairs, whispered conversation, not-so-whispered bickering. It was a mixed class of Gryffindors and Slytherins, traditionally a difficult course to teach, but Horace was loathe to do more than take points. If he gave a detention, he'd have to supervise the little bastards, or else fob them off on Filch. Yes, definitely time for retirement, or at least an assistant for the lower years. There had been that young man once, originally slated for Horace's replacement, what had been his name? Sneed? Snap?

A muffled shriek and a hissed epithet interrupted Horace's wandering thoughts, but he felt no particular urge to identify the culprits. Instead he let the chalk finish writing the notes and turned to his desk, intending to sweep the scrolls into a drawer for marking later. He stopped short, however, when he noticed the monster perched on top of the pile: easily twice as thick as the rest, maybe three times, and tied off with what looked like butcher's twine instead of the ribbons or cords most students used. He picked it up and stared at it, but no, the parchment was no thicker than normalactually, a bit thinner in spots, as if it had been scraped a few too many times. "Whose essay is this?"

The Slytherin side of the classroom burst into snickers; so, surprisingly, did much of the Gryffindor half. The boy who raised his hand sat in the front row, and though he was blushing fiercely he stuck out his chin in a display of stubborn young pride. "Stand up, young man," Horace barked. "What's your name?"

The boy stood. He was tall for his age and he gangled, putting Horace in mind of a young giraffe. His face seemed to consist mostly of ears and a pair of enormous tortoise-shell glasses that kept sliding down his tremendous nose. "Percy Weasley, sir," the boy said nervously, but his chin didn't drop an inch.

Horace blinkedof course, that red hair was a dead giveaway, though he'd never had much to do with the other two brothers. They might've had potential, but they never seemed to like him very much. Horace held out the scroll again. "You're quite certain this is an essay on the magical properties of rosemary, Mr. Weasley?"

Percy Weasley nodded.

"The essay I assigned to you last week."

Percy nodded.

"The essay that was only supposed to be eighteen inches long?"

Percy blushed even more fiercely, and his classmate snickered again. "I wanted to be thorough, professor," he said. "This is the first assignment of the year and I wanted to make a good first impression"

"Yes," Horace said. "Well. You've certainly made an impression, Mr. Weasley. I'd like to talk to you after dinner tonight."

Percy Weasley's face fell, and his glasses slid again. A ripple of snickers and muttering went through the class. "Did I do something wro"

"No, no. We'll talk later. Take your seat for now." He watched Percy Weasley sit and prepare to take notes, and listened to the ripple of noise in the room; even the other Gryffindors were muttering, and _swot_ wasn't the worst thing he heard. "A point to Gryffindor for, though," Horace added, "for...ah...initiative."

Half the class dropped their jaws. Percy Weasley's face lit up, and he grinned vibrantly at the girl sitting next to him, who gave him a sarcastic little smirk and rolled her eyes when he had turned away. That grin stayed in place all through the lecture.

_Interesting,_ Horace thought. _Very interesting.  
_  
-\\-\\-\\-

Horace had time to read Percy Weasley's essay before dinner, barely. It was four foot, seven and two-thirds inches long; he measured with two different rulers to be sure. When the boy peeked into his office at precisely seven-forty-five, Horace was just rolling it back into a scroll. He heard the knock, but almost didn't notice the pair of glasses peering around the edge of the door.

"Professor?" Weasley asked. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, yes. Please have a seat."

Horace finished rolling the scroll and fitted the coarse loop of twine back over the end, and used the time to watch the boy. He perched on the edge of his chair with an unnaturally straight posture, hands folded in his lap. Horace remembered Arthur Weasleya young man on a fast broom to nowhere from the startand knew William and Charles; none of them had ever shown such letter-perfect behavior. Who was the mother again? That's right, Molly Prewett, the erstwhile terror of Gryffindor. Anyone raised by that harpy of a stepmother of hers had a right to be a terror, Horace supposed; apparently she'd managed to terrorize at least one of her children in return.

"Percy," he said, "You misspelled the word 'analgesic' in your essay."

The boy's face plummeted. "I'm sorry professor," he blurted, "I checked the whole thing over five times before I handed it in"

Horace raised a hand to shush him. "Percy," he said again, "that was the only error in the entire essay."

The boy actually relaxed.

"Tell me, Percy, do you put this much...ah...effort into all your classes?"

"Oh, no, professor," the boy said, and Horace relaxed for just a moment. "I try much harder in Charms and Historynot that I slack off in your classI meanI justPotions iswell, not easier, butI think I understand it better so I don't have to work as hard. But I do work hard. I don't mean any disrespect."

Horace blinked at him, searching for the slightest hint of braggadocio or brown-nosing; he knew both quite well. Percy's blue eyes were wide open and completely serious. "None taken," Horace mumbled.

Weasley bit his lower lip, then said, "I could make it longer andand resubmit itif you wanted. For partial credit?"

"No!" Horace said, then mastered himself. "No, that won't be necessaryyou went far beyond the bounds of the assignment. Very far beyond. I daresay the rest of your class lost sight of you long ago."

"You told us you wanted a thorough discussion," Weasley said, looking confused. "I was trying to be thorough."

_If this is the boy's idea of thorough, I'd hate to see what he considers inadequate. _"You were very thorough," Horace assured him. "In fact, I think you could stand to be a great deal _less_ thorough in the future, without your marks suffering. For the staff's sake."

Weasley frowned. "But I have to get the best marks I can, Professor Slughorn," he said. "I've got to pass the Ministry exams."

Horace blinked. "Young man, you won't have to sit those for seven years!"

"I know," he said, "but my mum says it's never too early to start preparing."

Yes indeed, thoroughly terrorized. Horace sighed at him, thinking for a moment. "Your father works for the Ministry, doesn't he, Percy?"

The boy nodded, and he started blushing a little. "He's, er, really important," he said without much conviction.

"You want to follow in his footsteps, then?"

The boy squirmed a bit, looked down, and mumbled, "Not really."

"Then why are you so determined to work for the Ministry when you grow up?" Horace asked patiently.

"I..." Weasley started to say, then silenced himself.

"Don't be shy," Horace said in his kindest voice.

Weasley swallowed hard and looked him in the eye, and said softly, in a high child's voice. "I'm going to be the Minister of Magic."

Horace opened his mouth to explain how that was a fine ambition for a young man to have...then realized what he'd actually heard.

Not _I want to be._ Not _My mum says that._

I'm going to be the Minister of Magic.

He stared at the boy, who cringed and looked away. "You..."

"I know it's going to be difficult," Weasley blurted frantically, "and it's a long way off and I'm going to have to work really really hard, but I'm going to do it. I'm going to _do _it." He took a deep breath. "And when I'm Minister I can give my dad a raise and my brothers won't be allowed to make fun of me anymore, and I'll make the Ministry work like it's supposed to, and put the people in Azkaban if they're supposed to be there, and I won't let anyone bribe me or push me around, and I'll do everything _right_ and I'll be the best Minister of Magic ever."

Weasley shrank in his seat and blushed furiously after this confession; but Horace could only stare at him, and think, _He's completely serious about it. He's eleven years old, and one day he's going to be the Minister of Magic._ Oh, there was a fair measure of childish fantasy mixed in there, and childish naiveté about how it would happen...but this was no silly dream. This was a deliberate goal, and underneath the oversized glasses and gangly elbows, this was a childa young manwith just enough steel in his spine to get there. Maybe. All he really needed was bit of guidance. A helping hand, here and there. A few happy accidents.

Horace was very good at happy accidents. At all of it, really. And Percy Weasley trusted him completely.

"Percy," Horace said after a moment, "I think that is a most laudable ambition."

The boy looked up and blinked hugely behind those ridiculous glasses. "You do?" he asked.

"I do," Horace said earnestly. "It's been a long time since we've had a truly great Minister in office."

"My dad says it's not worth it," the boy blurted. "He sayssays it's all politics and corruption anyway and I'm better off finding a job I enjoy."

_And that is why your dad will never be great,_ Horace thought. _But you, oh, you_ "I think your father certainly means well," he said out loud. "But I also think that you're a young man who knows exactly what he wants out of life."

"I do?" Percy asked, then said, "I mean, I do. I do."

"You do," Horace said. He came around the side of the desk and leaned over, knees and back screaming, to put a fatherly hand on the boy's shoulder. "And I want you to know, Percy, that I'm more than willing to help you get what you want. In any way I can."

"You are?"

"I am." Horace smiled at him, thinking that perhaps he'd put off retirement for another few years. "You're a young man of enormous potential, Percy, and I'd hate to see that go to waste."


End file.
